


The Absence

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, whatever this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iker and his brother haven't spoken for a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nupoxsi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nupoxsi/gifts).



> read the end notes they're important i swear 
> 
> regarding the fic: sorry

All he could see was white and passion and victory, and it was all he thought about. It was an all-consuming desire that had haunted him since nine. The ever-elusive tenth was sitting in his lap, and he was sobbing on the pitch with the grass stains on his knee caps like dried blood. His hands were gripping the grass, and finally Sergio was pulling him up and telling him to stop crying because they’d finally done it, _finally_ , but Sergio was sobbing a little bit too. 

 

Iker didn’t move for a long time, not until Xabi pulled him to his feet and Marcelo was yelling “captain, captain” and then “O Captain, my Captain” very close to his ear from Sergio again, eyes gleaming, and after that, Iker cried some more because they’d finally done it and because he was growing older and because he wouldn’t always be Madrid’s captain, and the thought was something that broke him in ways people could not. 

 

That night was pure joy, and in that moment, Iker lost most things. He lost track of where he was and who he was, and for a moment everything was Madrid. Everything was just a sea of white and scarves raining down and chants of the players’ names. Someone was lifting Cristiano up and hugging him and pressing a kiss to his neck. Fabio was dancing with a scarf around his head. Marcelo was helping a group of rowdy fans compose a chant for Cibeles. 

 

Everything was perfect, and everything was home, and Iker felt Madrid in his veins. 

 

When he got home, Sara greeted him, and they didn’t talk very much about the game though Iker was bursting to tell someone, even if they’d already experienced every moment. He wanted to sit down and hold their hands in his and say, “No. This. This is what I felt” and he wanted to make them understand. 

 

But she had asked him awhile ago to keep some things to himself because it was her job to share the inside scoop, and even when she didn’t mean to, she was bound to slip clues in about what was really going on. Despite what people thought, she was gentle and kind and determined and strong. She was confusing and shy, but when she smiled, it was like something was breathing life into him once more. She wasn’t “different” and she didn’t try to be. She accepted her own conformity, and she embraced herself, and Iker loved her. 

 

They fucked later, and he loved her less then. He held her, and she said she loved him. They said that now. It had gotten to be a routine, and he said it back to be part of something. It was true. It was just not true in the simplest of ways. 

 

Iker woke up later, and he wandered over to the answering machine because he was still awake, and he’d promised he’d call his cousin anyway. And he was dreaming about the trophy and the match and the way the club was breathing with him. 

 

He listened to the voicemails. His cousin, calling and saying congratulations, screaming about how he was saving madridismo, sounding very drunk and very happy. His mother was crying into the phone, and she told him how proud she was, and he almost teared up at that too. His father chimed in later on in the call, and said, “Iker, we’re proud of you, son. Always knew you could do it.” 

 

There was a beep, breathing on the other end, and then, “Congratulations, Iker.” A second, shaking inhale, and the line went dead. 

 

Iker cradled the phone in his hands because it had been years and years, and they hadn’t spoken. It had been years, and his career was ending soon. That was the truth. He couldn’t play forever. There were certain things that were planting themselves in his heart and shooting out roots and attaching until they were a greater part of him than he was of himself. That was the club; that was Real Madrid. Real Madrid was an all-consuming fire, and he didn’t regret it for a second. 

 

But with Real Madrid already in his heart, there was space for very few others. There was space for everything on a basic level, on the level that made him a saint. He loved his family and his friends and his fans and his gloves and his socks and his boots and the pitch they played on. He loved a multitude of things that were important and some that were minuscule, but his love for Real Madrid didn’t take away from that multitude. 

 

It was the all-consuming, self-loathing, animal in itself kind of love that was limited. The club was something hanging over his head and something delicate and beautiful. It was a sword and a scythe, an ax and a lantern. It was magicians and warriors and the cavalry waiting to charge in. It was imagination and glory and tears in loss. It was everything, and so Iker didn’t have it in himself to love too many things like that. Only two things in the world were deserving of his hideous passion: his club and his brother. 

 

+ 

 

He called back the next morning. Sara was making pancakes, and he told her, “You remember my brother, right?” 

 

“Course. I thought you guys didn’t really talk much outside of holidays. Certainly didn’t seem like it last Christmas anyway.” 

 

“I know. Yeah.” He was distracted. He licked the syrup off his thumb. “I just felt like now would be a good time to talk. He called me last night, said congratulations.” 

 

“Congratulations,” she said sweetly, missing the point. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier and even your overlooked, dark and soulful brother did.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he kissed her like he needed it to breathe. 

 

“I have to though,” he said when they broke apart, and irritation flashed over her features. She made no comment, just raised her eyebrow quizzically. “I have to call him,” Iker clarified. “He’s my brother.” 

 

“Why now?” 

 

“Because he put aside his pride to tell me congratulations on the most important night of my life, so I think I can put aside a little bit of my pride for him. He deserves it. He’s my little brother, and it will always-- you know...” He licked his knuckle again though all the stickiness was gone. “It will always be my job to take care of him,” he finished, staring pointedly down at his lap. 

 

“What did you two ever get into a fight over anyway?” 

 

He clasped his hands together tightly. “I hardly remember anymore.” 

 

Sara knew he was lying, but she didn’t push it. She just rolled her eyes and prepared her coffee for the day, and when she finally left for work, he picked up his phone to call his brother. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

Iker felt frozen. “Hey,” he said in return, and he could still see his beautiful boy on the other end. with the dark eyes, tanner complexion. Iker had always teased him for being the “pretty” one, but Unai liked to walk around in his hipster glasses and pretend that all he cared about was his intelligence. He sneered at the concept of beauty, and Iker would call him childish. This Unai sounded different, all grown up and mature and less full of shit. Iker liked him either way. 

 

“Iker?” 

 

“Yeah.” There was a long pause, and then Iker cleared his throat. “So, listen, thanks for the call. I really, uh, I appreciated it, uh, a lot. Yeah.” 

 

There was a pause, a rustling sound, and the slamming of a door. Then, quietly, “It seemed like the right thing to do.” 

 

“Even after everything?” 

 

“Even after everything, the right thing is important to me,” Unai answered firmly. “You and I just disagree on what the right thing is.” 

 

“Sometimes,” Iker allowed. 

 

“Less than sometimes,” Unai corrected. “Just with important things.” 

 

Iker didn’t know what to say, so he shut his eyes and leaned against the counter. “So Sara is pregnant.” 

 

“So I heard.” 

 

“You didn’t call,” he said, trying not to sound too wounded. 

 

“No.” 

 

Iker remembered when they used to play football together, how they shoved their beds to either wall and kicked the ball across the room and Iker was goalie and Unai would try and score on him, and every time he kicked the ball, he would ask Iker about his life, about who he was dating or about the player he was meeting or the games he would go to. Unai wanted to know everything. He looked up to Iker. He cared. 

 

“You called for football, but you didn’t call for that?” 

 

“You love Real Madrid. You don’t love her.” 

 

Iker felt the blood drain from his face, and he glared down the hallway like Unai was standing there on the wooden panels with the same upturned nose, haughty expression, lost looking eyes. “I do love her,” he said after he battled his first bout of anger. “And you have no place telling me what I do or do not love after years of us not speaking.” 

 

“And whose fault is it that we haven’t spoken?” 

 

“Mine,” Iker answered, louder than necessary, and he pressed the phone into his ear. “But for good reason.” 

 

“Since when is fear a good reason.” 

 

“Fear is not my motivator, Unai. I want a normal life, and that probably doesn’t mean much to you because you’ve never been in the spotlight--” 

 

“No, you’re right. I’ve always been in your shadow. Thanks for the reminder,” he snapped. There was rustling on the other end, and then, “I’ve got to go. Enjoy your trophy.” 

 

+ 

 

Sara was decorating the tree with Iker’s younger cousins in the living room. He was helping his mother make coffee in the kitchen. She handed him the white mugs, and he took them silently. He peeked over his shoulder a few times, but not in Sara’s direction. 

 

“He’s not here.” 

 

“What?” He looked over to find his mother tapping her foot against the ground impatiently, waiting to hand him the next mug. He took it and went back to work, but he could feel her eyes still on him. “Who?” 

 

“Your brother, Iker. He’s not here.” 

 

“But it’s Christmas,” he said stupidly. He almost cracked the cup against the edge of the table. “He can’t just not be here.” 

 

“He’s coming soon just for an hour or two. He’s sleeping right now. He has a new job and everything. If you two ever get over whatever happened all those years ago, you should get around to congratulating him. I told him to call you about the game, but he refused. Said it wasn’t worth it. That you weren’t worth it.” 

 

“Obviously he’s right,” Iker replied sarcastically, but he couldn’t meet his mother’s gaze, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that Unai had called anyway. 

 

She sighed. She moved over to the other counter, started to roll the dough in her hands. She blew flour in Iker’s face until he blinked a few times, cut himself out of his own daydream. 

 

“Iker,” she said, in a tone that made him stand up straighter, “I don’t care what happened between you two. I really don’t. You’re my sons, and I love you more than anything and in spite of everything. But get over whatever it is. Swallow your pride because it is your job to protect your brother, and it is his job to love you. I’ve never seen him fail to love you with everything in him. But you hurt him, Iker. Living in your shadow isn’t easy, and he’s had to do it for all his life.” 

 

“I know.” He rubbed his eyes with his palms, letting out a loud sigh. It felt like something was caught in his throat. “I know and I’m sorry. I’m sorry we haven’t talked. I called him last night though, and it wasn’t great. It just felt like there’s too much between--” He cut off. He shook his head, grabbed some dough instead and started turning it over in his hands. 

 

The doorbell rang, and his mother pursed her lips. “You make it right, Iker, or so help me God--” 

 

And then Unai was there, and Sara looked up from decorating the tree. They hugged, and Unai pressed a hand to her stomach. He murmured something to her in that quiet way he had, and she threw back her head and laughed. Her hair swung around until it was half-covering her face again, and Iker wished he could go up to Unai and touch his hand and say, “No. This. This is how I felt.” And then touch his face and say, “And _this_. This is how I feel.” 

 

Unai looked up over Sara’s head, and he and Iker watched each other for a moment, each gauging the reaction of the other. Sara raised her eyebrows and went back to decorating. She showed the kids how to light up the tree, and they clapped their hands delightedly. 

 

Unai walked over first. He embraced Iker, and neither of them spoke, but Iker held on for a long time. Unai tried to let go, but Iker held him tighter and muttered something gruffly under his breath about how “Christmas is really cold this year.” 

 

When they stepped back to look at each other, Iker reached out to straighten Unai’s scarf. He looked down and cleared his throat. One of his little cousins laughed and pointed and said, “What’s wrong with Iker, Auntie Sara?” 

 

“What’s wrong with Iker?” she echoed. “A lot. A lot is wrong with Iker.” She was joking, but Iker didn’t laugh because he felt like a lot was wrong. He didn’t like distance between himself and his brother, and he liked it even less when he was the one forcing that distance. 

 

He escaped to his old room later. He touched where tape had been on the walls, the paper that was left behind when posters were ripped off and packed away in boxes and shipped off to his new home. He still had them somewhere, along with a pair of Unai’s old winter gloves. 

 

There was a knock on the door, and Unai was standing in the doorway, watching Iker run his hand over the tape on the wall. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room quickly like he meant to do something drastic, but he stopped right in front of Iker, so close Iker could feel his brother’s breath. 

 

“Unai,” he warned. 

 

“Iker,” Unai returned stubbornly. 

 

Iker’s hand dropped from the wall. “Do you remember when we were younger and we used to play football in here?” 

 

He nodded. “We used to do a lot of things when we were younger.” 

 

“Young and stupid.” 

 

“Young and honest.” 

 

Iker let him have that one because he was partly right and because he was the older one, and he’d been neglecting his brotherly duties as of late. Instead, he said, “You’ll be around for the baby, right?” 

 

There was a flicker of something in Unai’s eyes, something like being found after years wandering. “If you want me to be.” 

 

“Course I want you to be. You’re my brother.” 

 

“I know. I kind of hate that sometimes.” 

 

“Me too.” 

 

+ 

 

They started talking again after that. They went out to lunch and sometimes Unai came to games. He picked Iker up after practice and they ate and talked about everything that had happened since their separation. Iker told his brother about Sara and how they had met, and he ignored the flicker of pain in Unai’s eyes every time her name was mentioned. They talked about Unai’s ex-girlfriend. He said he loved her, but that didn’t really mean anything. 

 

Iker didn’t know what he meant because love had him in chains. “I don’t get it. What do you mean? Love is.” He stopped abruptly because he didn’t know anymore. “It’s not something you can just brush aside.” 

 

“I mean,” Unai said carefully, setting aside his water glass, “that my definition of love has been redefined. And she fit with the old definition.” 

 

“And who fits with the new?” 

 

Unai just blinked. After a second, Iker’s cheeks turned pink and he looked away. He started another conversation about Sara and the clothing she was picking out and how they were going to find out whether the baby was a boy or a girl. 

 

“Do you want to come buy a crib with us? I’m not sure exactly what the good ones look like versus what the bad ones look like, although Sara keeps bugging me about it. She says I should know, and I guess she’s right, but it’s just so fucking hard, you know? Cribs, right?” 

 

Unai just blinked again. He sipped his water. “Sure,” he said when Iker didn’t go on. “They’re like cages.” 

 

“Yeah, exactly.” Iker’s throat felt dry, and his sweater felt itchy. He forced a smile. “Well, I better go. It’s getting kind of late and--” 

 

“Iker.” 

 

“--she’ll start to wonder where I am. She does this now. She--” 

 

“Iker, I’m done.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Done pretending. You and I don’t act like this. We don’t meet up for lunch to talk about our girlfriends or how our lives are going. You know I love you. You know how I feel, but every time I’m with you, I feel like I’m not even human. Like I’m living in your shadow, and I try so fucking hard to be good at living in your shadow, but you still don’t love me enough.” He gave a sharp laugh like he knew he was starting to sound childish, but it was honest, so. “And you never will,” he finished. 

 

“Unai--” 

 

“No.” 

 

“No, stop.” Iker took a shaky breath. He gripped the table, his fingers turning pale from the pressure. “I love you more than anything. You’re my brother. You take up so much space in my head that I don’t have time to remember anniversaries or first dates or what kind of shampoo I fucking buy.” 

 

Unai just stared at him because all his life he had looked up to Iker and loved Iker, and that was his job, like his mother said, to love Iker. He had to love his brother when the rest of the world was kneeling and kissing his feet like he was the second coming of Jesus Christ. And he had to love him more than that. He worshipped him. 

 

“I miss you,” Iker said quietly. “I miss you every time you’re away.” 

 

“I know,” Unai replied, brushing his fingers over Iker’s hand, and it was like he could touch their hands together and say “This. This is how I feel” and he was all torn up inside. “Better if we miss each other,” he said, almost apologetically. 

 

The chair scraped against the concrete as he left, and he glanced over his shoulder once efore opening the door and not returning. 

**Author's Note:**

> No, it is not a mistake that I never explained what their original fight was about or why they're not talking. I'm letting you think what you want based on the rest of the fic.


End file.
